


the three-headed dragon

by candybank



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Game of Thrones AU, Hot, M/M, yes jeonghan targaryen sits on the iron throne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-02-09 21:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18646501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candybank/pseuds/candybank
Summary: house targaryen has ruled as the kings of the andals, the rhoynar, and the first men, the lords of the seven kingdoms, and the great house of the crownlands for nearly a thousand years; with the eldest of the three dragons seated on the iron throne, it will continue to rule for thousands more.





	1. the three-headed dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> svt got au headcanon dump with a loose storyline..mostly a character and relationships centric fic..also kindof a smut fic..plss dont take anything abt this seriously its all for shits n giggles..headcanons by myself and the wonderful creative lovely not horny not incest supporter nessa <33

minghao hates the city. the cement domes and skyward pillars make the heavens look dark; windows hide the sun, smoke hides the clouds. and the streets—he watches from inside the carriage, peeking from behind a red curtain, as dust turns to cobblestone; earth to rock to gold—oh, gods of old and gods of new _._ the streets are grimy and disgusting and smelly and soiled. and when something in the city is soiled, he observes, the muck and slime and scum of it seep deep into the gravel, yet, somehow, never quite find the earth. spilled waters and wines and piss and blood never seem to return to the ocean; even excrement and flesh never melt back into the ground the way they should after a day or two in the sun and rain.

he thinks of this gross curiosity as the silver-colored carriage that his brother had sent to the edge of king’s landing to pick him up is pulled along a narrow market street. he watches, still with only one hazel pupil seeing into the world from behind a silk cloth, disheveled men and women and children, with their wits about them and their desperation, yelling about bananas and fish and cotton and wool and bread and silver and copper. along the cobblestone street and up the cobblestone walls, running along the sidewalk or waving from open windows, they all shout and scream about this and that and there and where.

_‘that’s a carriage from the castle!’ ‘who is it?’ ‘is it one of the princes?’ ‘is it the princess?’_

a young boy no taller than three bottles of wine stacked on top of each other runs alongside the carriage. he narrows his eyes, trying to peer into the closed window. when minghao looks down, their gazes lock. the boy stops in his tracks, jaw slack, as if caught in a trance, as if he’d just seen a ghost, or witnessed the birth of a dragon. he watches as the carriage turns left into the main street, and he thinks of following it all the way up to the castle, but his little legs won’t let him run any further, and so he stays planted on the ground, watching the carriage disappear.

the people had looked so dirty and so poor, and the boy had looked so hopeful and so poor, that it pushes a shudder out of minghao’s body. he lets the curtain fall closed, and leans back into the plush velvet seat.

and he closes his eyes for a moment longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters will vary in length! length control and attn to word count idk her! hope u liked it!bec i love this au vry much!


	2. the child king

he comes to moments later, after three knocks on the door and a ‘your highness, we’ve arrived.’ minghao rubs his eyes awake—soon after regretting the decision when they begin to sting from being scratched with dirt and dried mud.

“ _seven hells—_ ” he spits under his breath as he blinks rapidly, trying to cry away the day’s bad decisions.

a soft screech calls his attention.

“we’re here, toad,” he scratches the back of his dragon’s head as the tiny green creature stirs awake.

 _toad_ , as minghao has so affectionately decided to call the small green-scaled, orange-eyed beast sitting beside him, blinks and blinks and blinks to get the light out of his eyes. he curls and uncurls his tail, that which spans barely four inches long, and stretches and unstretches his claws, those of which he has three on each leg. he yawns, which comes out as a small high-pitched screech and smoke puffing from his nostrils.

scales and sharp nails and wings fluttering, just barely bigger than the average house cat, he climbs onto minghao’s lap and up the rope hanging over his torso until he reaches his shoulder. there, toad spends a leisurely few minutes trying to find a comfortable spot, and when he finds it, he settles down and screeches again.

minghao scratches the back of his dragon’s head once more. “i’ve missed my brothers as well,” he sighs before knocking thrice on the door.

at the effort of a servant, the door swings open, sunlight flooding the small space. minghao has to blink several times to clear his vision of tiny black spots and tiredness. he has barely begun to see when he hears,

“i’m happy to see you’ve returned—in one piece, thankfully.”

and in a moment, he sees his eldest brother’s blinding platinum-blonde head in front of him. toad says his hello with a screech, and minghao belatedly takes the hand that’s extended to him.

after a moment longer, he gives his brother a raised eyebrow and a curious stare. “you took a break from your tiring, grueling, unforgiving, never-ending list of kingly duties to greet me?” he asks, doubtful.

when his brother takes too long to answer, minghao seizes the opportunity to do what he does best: grin and say something smart. “are you upset with me, jeonghan?” he jibes, “or, even worse… did you miss me?”

and jeonghan, king jeonghan of house targaryen, first of his name, king of the andals and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm,  hair as silver as the crown on his head, face as pale as the marble of the palace steps, he smiles to placate himself. “i always miss you when you’re gone, brother,” he replies, “is the blue rock as wondrous as the songs say?”

and minghao, knowing him well enough to know that he always does this curious thing, always only says the truth that is good to hear so that he won’t make himself upset, then smiles as he tries to swallow the bitters, he laughs at the look on jeonghan’s face; a child being forced to eat a vegetable, a fool faced with a bad joke.

“i wouldn’t know,” he answers, still smiling, if only because he can’t find it in himself to stop, “the blue rock’s dried up, i’m afraid. some dragon or another had it scorched into ashes. do you know what? my coin’s on caizire, _the silver_ —much like our father, our brother isn’t the most excellent of fathers, after all.”

jeonghan’s great attempt at politeness is betrayed by the contempt in his eyes. still wearing the same strange look on his face as if yesterday’s unwashed garments, he answers minghao with a stare. and minghao, being his youngest brother, he refuses to give him any satisfaction. instead, he walks ahead with another laugh and a skip in his step, happy that he’d given jeonghan the hello he’d intended to give him.

“i’ll be waiting for the lecture in my room. we have much to discuss,” he says to jeonghan, and into the void he calls, “will someone _please_ draw me a hot bath?”


	3. the black sheep

the halls are as silver and golden as minghao remembers them to be. every now and then, he sees a new mural on the floor or a new painting hanging up on a wall, or a door painted a different color, or a window that wasn’t there before, but, besides the faces attached to the heads of blonde and brunette and black that bow to him as he passes, it seems as if absolutely nothing has changed.

he feels a kind of disappointment when he sees that the door to his chambers is still black steel and heavy. at the very least, he’d expected it to have been painted a different color, or even a different shade of black. king’s landing truly is one of the most uneventful places in the world, he thinks incredulously, sighing to himself as the guards that had escorted him from the gates stop to man the outside of his room. one of them pushes the door open, then, after minghao has stepped inside, the guard pulls it closed. the lock clicks shut, and, immediately, toad flies off of minghao’s shoulder and perches himself on a bar hanging from the ceiling in his corner of the room.

much like a leaf left in a still pond, absolutely nothing about the room has changed. the silver silk bed still stands to the left of the room, two chairs and a table beside it, toad’s space stays fixed to the right—a hanging bar surrounded by burnt bones—next to the wide, open balcony and the swaying curtains. there is still the study desk in the smaller adjoining room, the shelves with books, the maps and scrolls, the ink dried, the feather turned.

absolutely nothing has changed but the color of the sky and the bathtub he’d asked for sitting in the middle of the room where nothing usually lies. it’s astounding, to him, that anything can be so boring, so much so that it makes him laugh.

“exactly how we’d left it,” he says to toad, who responds with a screech that sounds every bit like minghao’s laughter. they seem, right then, more a father and a son joking about this matter and the other than just a man and a dragon.

toad grabs a piece of red meat from the tub underneath him, he tosses it into the air, toasts it with fire then swallows it down before lifting his wings and sailing out into the sky. minghao watches him go fondly. he watches his dragon fly away until he disappears into the sun.


	4. the lions and the bears, oh my

lifting the rope hanging across his body and discarding it onto the floor, he can feel a stillness in the air. outside, the world continues to turn, and men and women and children scream about this and that and this, and curious little boys run beside sparkling silver carriages, and pray for bread on the table and water in their lungs; but, here, now, it’s as if the world has stopped, as if clocks have seized their turning, and there is nothing but him and the bubbling water in the ivory tub a few steps away.

minghao takes in a deep breath as he steps out of the scratchy, coarse wool material of his clothing. all black ink and carved scars and skin pulled taut over bones—a dragon curled around his body, the sky clinging onto his shoulders, the sun engraved into his hips. the dirt, the hunger, the tiredness of his feet—all the sour necessities of travel fade away as he runs his fingers through his black-dyed hair and sinks into the boiling water of the bath. 

the heat envelopes him, like fire embracing fire, and where it should have burned his flesh and melted his bones, it only relieves him. minghao slips further into the water until his entire body is submerged from the neck down. closing his eyes and sighing softly, he lets the tension lift from his shoulders and dissipate, twisting into the air like steam, like smoke, then turning into nothing.

he breathes the sun in, the fire in, the heat in, and he holds all the warmth of the world in the pit of his stomach, slipping deeper into the water until it tickles his face like feathers, holding his breath until he can breathe no longer, then he sits up slowly, and exhales softly.

when he opens his eyes, jeonghan is standing beside the tub. all pristine white robe trimmed with silver dragons; a king to the very tips of his fashionable shoes.

“your grace,” minghao greets— _ simpers _ .

jeonghan gives him a patient smile.

“is two years sufficient?” jeonghan says, words sharp and biting despite the softness of his gaze. he pauses, but not nearly long enough to steer his own ship into the direction he’d wanted to sail to, “have you had your fun?”

minghao doesn’t answer. he knows speaking now is jumping into shark-infested waters, so he lets the shark swim and swim. jeonghan takes off his crown and sets it on minghao’s bed. he sits on the stool at the head of the tub, grabs the towel hanging on the edge, and starts to wash the black dye out of minghao’s hair and into the bucket on the floor.

he never did understand why his baby brother began rubbing mud into his hair. the silver, the blonde—jeonghan thinks it’s a sign of nobility, of greatness, of their family’s legacy. he thinks it’s as inseparable a part of their identity as the paleness of their skin or the lightness of their eyes. he can’t begin to understand why a targaryen would ever want to hide. 

but minghao  _ is _ the black sheep, born with hazel eyes and a thirst for the skies that has only ever been seen in dragons. jeonghan doesn’t say anything about it now. he doesn’t ask, doesn’t wonder. still, the more silver strands begin to show, the harder it becomes to quell his curiosity.

jeonghan forces his attention to more immediate questions.

“ _ two _ years away from your responsibilities,” he speaks before he can catch himself and stop himself. “ _ two years _ … leaving the kingdom’s treasury to a  _ stark _ —”

“please,” minghao scoffs, “mingyu knows what he’s doing. as you said, he’s a stark. who better to make sure we spend our money correctly—if at all,” he laughs, “would you rather i left the coin to one of the lannister twins? they’d force us into debts we could never pay, usurp the crown while we grapple for gold, then turn king’s landing into a whorehouse—have an orgy or two at the crowning ceremony, i’m certain.” he pauses, lifts his head to grin at jeonghan, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you? you’ve always been fond of them.” his grin grows wider as he lifts a finger to tickle jeonghan’s neck.

jeonghan swats minghao’s hand away and turns the conversation elsewhere. “… … we’ve never had duller balls and dimmer dinners…” he complains quietly, trivially, to which minghao laughs again.

“that, my dear brother, is called  _ thrift _ . we inherited a throne with an empty treasury,” he shrugs, “if the gods will it, then it will be.”

“have you become a spiritualist now?” jeonghan scoffs.

“if only,” minghao sighs in reply.

there is a shared laugh, a quiet moment. nothing but the drip-drip of black dye into a wooden bucket, and a conversation carried on quietly. minghao says nothing as jeonghan washes his hair, and jeonghan says nothing when he finishes. he only wrings the towel and wipes his hand, and he puts on his crown and walks to the door.

“welcome back, minghao,” he says, “i expect to see you at the small council meeting tomorrow.

you. not mingyu,” he clarifies sternly, whispering under his breath as he turns to leave, “the half wit.”

minghao laughs. “chain him to your bed then,” he says, winking at jeonghan when he turns back around, “i assume that’s where he spends a good deal of his time.”


	5. the crow

with the size of the small council’s meeting room, one would think they ought to be called the big council. the gold-painted pillars reach up to the high ceiling that seems nearly as high as the sky. the table is appropriately sized to accommodate the men that are meant to be there, but still too intricately carved, and the chairs are taller than they should be, heavier than they should be, more garish than they should be. 

as with everything in king’s landing, everything is more than it should be.

however, in anything but the coin, minghao is not a tyrant of should’s. he is the could’s, and sometimes, the if’s, and’s, or but’s. he only notices these things now because he feels as if it’s his responsibility, once again, to take notice of everything. the how much, the how many,

but not necessarily the  _ when _ . when he walks into the room, he sees only one person sitting at the table. a head of blonde hair, a pair of gray eyes; a red smile shining nearly as bright as the silver strings stacked around the man’s neck and the silver rings around his fingers.

seungcheol doesn’t stand to greet him, and minghao doesn’t expect him to.

“no one told me you’d returned,” seungcheol says by way of hello, i’m glad to see you again, it’s good to have you back.

“here i am,” minghao grins, holding his arms out, as if to present himself; black ink littered across his chest and neck peeking from between the low dip of his silver robe’s neckline, the long sleeves of his garment flaring out over the tattooed expanse of his arms and hands.

“hardly appropriate,” seungcheol remarks with a snicker, eyeing the way the thin material draped over  minghao’s thin body glitters in the morning light, his words resembling a compliment more than a warning, “i doubt jeonghan will appreciate it.”

minghao scoffs as he takes the seat across his older brother. “ _ appreciation _ ? i imprisoned my best friend here for two years in a job he hates just so jeonghan could fuck him whenever he wanted. his grace should be thanking me.”

seungcheol laughs fondly. “and they never let us forget it,” he says.

minghao leans forward; mischievous, curious glint in his eyes—a schoolgirl poised to hear the latest gossip. “tell me everything,” he says, “how long after i left? how often?”

“oh,  _ often _ . you know our brother,” seungcheol answers, “he does love his shiny things.”

“not much less than you,  _ crow _ ,” minghao quips, gaze fluttering to the silver and the gems.

seungcheol of house targaryen; the crow (named for his love of silver and gold), the master of ships.

he rolls his eyes at the nickname and continues, “they were at it nearly every night, if my hearing serves me well. whenever i walked by jeonghan’s quarters, i’d hear m—“

just then the door opens, and as gossiping hens do, seungcheol and minghao look up to see if they’ve been caught. a soft smile greets them. a tall, handsome boy with a head of brown hair in his signature blue velvet coat trimmed with golden flowers.

wonwoo of house tyrell; the blue rose, the king’s hand.

“your highnesses,” he says cordially, bowing to the both of them. and anyone else would have said something else, one question or three about minghao’s travels, or praises of his safe return, or high compliments towards seungcheol’s new silver, but wonwoo continues on quietly, never noticing the awkwardness that trails after the words he doesn’t say; never saying much besides what absolutely needs to be said. 

wonwoo turns to walk to his seat, and suddenly, for no reason besides that he can, minghao holds out his ring to be kissed. there is a pause, as if the split-second silence following a joke, the short moment to see whether the crowd will cheer or jeer. no one ever quite knows what wonwoo is thinking, and even fewer are those who want to challenge his humor. minghao does this now; he presents himself as a challenger, and though he knows no laws bound him to do so, wonwoo  _ humors _ him. he grins and steps forward, then takes minghao’s hand. deep brown eyes fluttering up to look at the prince as he bows his head, wonwoo  presses his lips to the silver ring around minghao’s index finger.

taken aback by wonwoo’s reply, skin tingling with the feeling of his lips, minghao pats wonwoo’s face. he laughs, calling for wine as the hand of the king takes his seat.

“you look well, wonwoo,” minghao says jovially from behind the rim of his goblet, tracing with his eyes the rose and the thorns and the leaves climbing up and around the edges of wonwoo’s clothing. he has always been fond of the tyrell’s and their creative sigil, and the ever more creative story of their rise to power. he doesn’t remember being  _ this _ fond of  _ this _ particular tyrell, but it’s a change that he happily welcomes.

“growing strong,” wonwoo replies with a small smile, his joke taking minghao and seungcheol off-guard once more. they look to him in slight surprise, and laugh again delightedly.

“the hand  _ speaks _ now,” minghao chuckles, “he makes jokes! i can’t wait to see what else i’ve missed.”

“you won’t have to wait long,” comes a familiar voice from the doorway.

eyes turn, and subjects stand. they bow to the king and he greets them with a smile, “shall we begin?”

 


	6. the blue rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw smut, not really explicit

from afar, the hand’s bed resembles a hearth. a burning hearth, with flames of blue and red and silver and gold dancing and swaying about, intertwining, tangling, twisting, unraveling. as limbs do, as lips do, as robes pulled free from strings do. there is the sound of burning flame, crackling wood, scratched skin, and definitely the feeling of it. there are velvets of blue and silks of red strewn across the floor, thrown over the edge of the bed—as if the aftermath of a hurry, of a thirst, of a hunger.

“i’ve missed you,” minghao grins, the words barely escaping him before wonwoo has swallowed him down once more. he chuckles into the kiss, not because he’d heard something funny, but because he’s amused by how changed wonwoo seems; because he’s amused by how wonwoo hasn’t changed at all.

he still says nothing that doesn’t need to be said. he still uses his eyes to do every bit of his speaking. he’s still a gardener; he still buries his nails into minghao’s hips as one would bury a seed into the earth—deeply and with intent, with the patience to watch bruises bloom like blue roses. yet, he is  _ much _ changed. there is the shadow of a smile walking ahead of his words. there is the glint in his eyes that tells of something playful.

there is the struggle, the slight, the rolling around in wonwoo’s bed trying to pin each other down.

minghao surrenders and lets his legs be spread apart. he makes a tasteless joke about being pricked with the rose’s thorn, and laughs and moans and cries wonwoo’s name.

there is the hour, the minutes. minghao wraps himself in a robe hanging on the back of a chair, then climbs back into bed with wonwoo. “what are you so  _ giddy _ about?” he narrows his eyes, leaning forward until his nose is pressed to wonwoo’s cheek.

“what do you mean?” wonwoo laughs, voice low and quiet.

the sound of him nearly drives minghao crazy. mindless and mad with lust, laughing at how ridiculously hot his skin feels all of a sudden, and all at the effortless persuasion of a voice, minghao kisses wonwoo harshly. lips crashing, teeth bumping, tongues shoved down throats in between giggling and laughing and trying to say something. minghao finds himself unable to stop. he kisses wonwoo until his jaw feels slack, until his lungs feel cold, until tiredness seeps into his bones. then, and only then, does he peel himself away, walking to the table to pour himself a drink.

“i mean you’ve been cracking jokes and smiling with your eyes and who knows what else,” minghao gestures vaguely towards wonwoo’s face, and he looks so ridiculous doing it that wonwoo can’t help smiling.

“you miss me,” wonwoo turns the conversation so suddenly and so forcefully and so smoothly that minghao feels no obligation to turn it back around. of course, the sudden show of skin that comes with wonwoo sitting up in bed has an obvious influence on minghao’s decision-making. 

minghao waves his hand dismissively.

“is this another one of your wonderful jokes?” he asks rhetorically, sipping wine out of a cup, “i believe it’s what poets call… ‘ _ the heat of the moment _ ’—we’ve spoken only once before and fucked only twice as much. why in the heavens would i  _ miss _ you?”

he’s answered with silence and a look of amusement, so he continues.

“oh, of course,” minghao muses, as if he has suddenly remembered a crucial piece of information, climbing back into bed and sharing just another kiss. “well, i wasn’t speaking to you,” minghao grins, sucking on wonwoo’s bottom lip as he palms him over the sheets. he plays with him for a moment, and then a moment more, before feeling the fires start to burn low.

“well, i do apologize for leaving you out in the cold,” minghao says, to which wonwoo replies with a look of confusion.

“oh, you know—you truly are wonderful, but surely, my brother preferred the company of a northerner. so  _ exotic _ . so different. so… shiny and new. i can only imagine you spent far more time away from the king’s bed than you used to because of mingyu.”

“i never—”

“it’s fine,” minghao presses his lips to wonwoo’s, “seungcheol’s no more difficult to get in bed than the rest of us. … however, he does have more…  _ specific _ tastes...”


	7. the dragon's den

“tell me the story of us,” jeonghan says, smiling gently into the crook of mingyu’s neck, “tell me the story of us the way you’d tell it to our children.”

“our children?” mingyu chuckles, looking down at jeonghan. he’d be incredulous and sad if he wasn’t so happy, but he feels as light as a feather, as if he’s floating on air, laying in the clouds, dreaming, and so he watches fondly as the king traces the edge of the world across his lover’s chest, feeling as if his head has been separated from his torso when he remembers that he is that lover.

“yes,” jeonghan replies, as if entirely serious. he lifts his lilac eyes towards mingyu, and leans forward to press a kiss onto his lips. “we’ll marry and we’ll have children, and though they’ll belong to other people, they will still be ours and i will still tell them the story of us.”

“... the story of how we fell in love?” mingyu says daringly, almost taunting, almost joking, brown eyes boring into jeonghan’s.

jeonghan smiles. “yes,” he answers after a beat, “tell it to me now so that i may tell you what you ought to say.”


	8. the wolf and the sheep

“keeping warm, are we?” minghao is turned to the sun when mingyu walks in, enjoying a bottle of fine wine and waiting for the sky to grow dark. he had spent the entire day hunched over his desk, making graphs and crunching numbers and drawing up plans, missing the sky and thinking of the boy from the street and thinking, what if i leave again today? what if i leave in search of something i know i won’t find again? then, his eyes had begun to hurt, so he put down his quill and changed out of one silk robe into another.

now, he sits by the balcony, goblet in hand, watching the colors in the sky turn from one into another; one leg crossed over the other, slivers of exposed skin all inked or scarred or both. a head of a dragon, 

a wing, a tail, skin carved to look like scales. they say he’s the black sheep; they say he’s the dragon. 

he turns his head to look at mingyu, mischievous smile on his lips.

“i thought you said the south was already warm enough,” minghao says, swirling around the red in his cup, “all that fucking must be making you unbearably  _ toasty _ .”

instead of saying anything, mingyu drags a chair to the table and sits across from him. he pours himself a drink, wine filling the empty cup that minghao had set out just for him. minghao laughs, delighted.

“my brother is yet to grow tired of you,” he says, “i’m surprised— _ pleasantly _ , of course.

and you?”

“and me?”

minghao points to mingyu’s face. “have you grown tired of him and his… musings? seungkwan says he’s demanding and asks too many questions.”

“is there such a thing as too much for a king?”

minghao replies to his friend with a look of surprise. “well, isn’t that a neat trick. my brother made his words come out of your mouth and i don’t even see him here,” he laughs. “we might just make a  _ southerner _ out of you yet. … perhaps you’ve spent too much time away from the north.”

mingyu grunts in reply, and downs and an entire cup of wine before pouring himself another.

“i can’t imagine soonyoung’s too happy about that.”

“soonyoung’s a good ward. he’s doing well. we converse regularly.”

“is he visiting us soon?”

mingyu shakes his head and drinks again, as if he intends to get drunk. “he hates this place,” he says, “says it makes him feel his ball sweat dripping down his thighs.”

to this crude joke, they both laugh. 

there is the sound of sipped wine, set sun, and darkening sky.

“i’ve missed you,” minghao tells him, to which mingyu replies with a grin.

“the lannisters are visiting,” mingyu says after a beat, watching minghao’s expression from the corner of his eye. he would be lying if he said he didn’t want to get _ some _ sort of reaction out of him. the youngest of the three dragons is known for being well-versed in the art of forming faces, but mingyu has a theory that that’s only true because no one knows minghao well enough to know what to say; no one has been close enough to him to know which nerves to pinch. 

minghao presses his lips together and stares into the sun too long. then, his face cracks into a smile. “don’t worry, my dear best friend,” he looks to mingyu, pinching back, “when my brother fucks them both on their first night here, you can sleep in my bed if yours becomes too empty and cold. it’s no king’s quarters, but my sheets are still made of silk.”


	9. the two-headed lion

the lannisters arrive all gold and red and gold, gold,  _ gold _ ,  _ gold _ . it would have been garish if it had been anyone else. if it had been anyone else, the hundred horses and miles of glitter and grand banners and gold armors would have seemed like nothing but a pretentious display of wealth or an annoying kind of affluence, but it’s the lannisters, and so they are forgiven. and so nothing seems out of place when the two princes of casterly rock saunter into the throne room followed by ladies and gents and sworn swords as if riding into battle instead of bowing to the king.

seokmin and junhui of house lannister; the twins, the two-headed lion.

they greet the court with glittering smiles, and, as if moved by only one force, they bend the knee and bow their heads. “my king,” they say at the same time, and look up at the same time.

there is a pause, as if the world holding its breath, before jeonghan breaks into a generous smile. he motions for them to rise. “my good friends,” he says, “it brings me great pleasure to see you back at king’s landing.”

“the pleasure is ours,” seokmin replies, a secret trailing after the joyful glint in his eyes.

and junhui, as if with child-like wonder, he looks around the room at the dozens and dozens of faces scattered about. soldiers and noblemen and servants, some familiar and others not, some aged and others gone. busy running casterly rock with his brother after their father became ill, he hasn’t been to king’s landing in well over a year. now, he sees old friendships waiting to be rekindled, and new friendships waiting to be formed, none of which interest him as much as the dark-haired, brown-eyed, silver-robed targaryen boy standing not far from the throne.

junhui raises an eyebrow at him. minghao replies with a tilt of the head.

“i see the youngest dragon has returned,” junhui says, at which point, everyone mimics him and turns their eyes to minghao. junhui bows, low enough to make minghao think that he’s mocking him, though he knows that that’s not where minghao’s mind goes. “i’m glad to see your travels have concluded safely, your highness.”

minghao answers too quickly, too easily and too brashly, “if you’d like me to tell you my fascinating stories at length, all you need to do is come to my chambers in your thinnest robe with your finest wine,” he says, simmering in the awkward silence that follows.

but junhui only laughs, and jeonghan laughs along with him, and so everyone laughs at the youngest prince’s famed wit and humor.


	10. red, white, rose and champagne

junhui arrives with servants trailing behind him. four too-handsome men in too-thin robes holding four bottles of too-precious wine. from his place in the balcony, minghao turns to see him. light eyes trail over leather dressings and glimmering bottles and sharp, angled noses and golden skin. a grin pulls across his lips.

“i said  _ your _ thinnest robe.”

“why have one when you can have four?”

minghao stares at junhui like he’s stupid. then, his expression eases into mild-mannered contempt. he leans back against the railing, the material of his loose clothing pulling back with the movement of his arms, exposing more of the dragon drawn across his body.

“is this another ploy at making me say that i want you?”

“no one said anything about ploys,” junhui answers smartly, quickly lifting his eyes from minghao’s chest.

minghao narrows his eyes at him, “i’m beginning to think no one should have said anything at all.”

the moment bottlenecks, somewhere between almost and shouldn’t. junhui walks closer to minghao, and though he wants to step closer to him, rub his arm or kiss his mouth, he stands a conversation’s distance away. proper and upright, poised and regal like the lion on his chest.

“i offer these as my gifts,” junhui motions to the men standing behind them, deliberately vague about whether or not he means the bottles or the bodies, “to celebrate your safe return.”

“lavish,” minghao says, almost bored the way he eats up the carved muscle and careful glass. he turns his eyes back to junhui, hoisting himself up onto the ledge to sit. “it almost makes me curious to see what you would have given if i had died during my travels.”

and though he wants to fit himself between minghao’s legs, and though he imagines scratching roads of red up and down his thighs, junhui only smiles, squinting as he looks up at minghao at the same time that the sun re-appears from behind the clouds. “for my prince, i would give anything,” he recites like a dedicated courtier.

a bitter smile crosses minghao’s lips. “and from my subjects, i expect nothing.

leave. i’ll keep the rose, take the rest with you.”


	11. the night

they stumble into wonwoo’s room at half-past drunk, with the sun burning low and passions burning high. inhibitions dry as minghao commands the door open, nearly tripping as he runs and laughs his way through tangled limbs and marble floor to wonwoo’s bed. he falls into the soft silk, the sheets crumpling as he crawls to the sleeping body, shaking it awake.

wonwoo squints into the moonlit darkness, barely having made out the shapes before him when a mouth envelopes his tongue. a small whimper comes out of him, but the taste is so familiar that panic rests in the very back of his mind. wine and fire, he drinks it again and again.

“your highness--?” he tries to speak in between teeth and lips, grateful for the darkness that doesn’t show the smile that runs along his mouth as minghao kisses him hungrily.

minghao shushes him, and kisses him again. straddling his waist and kissing him again, messing fingers through his hair and kissing him again, moaning into his mouth and kissing him again.

then, he feels himself being palmed over his thin trousers, but he can feel both of minghao’s hands on his face and his own hands on minghao’s body, and so he wonders hard about it. and he doesn’t have to wonder too long. he can see better now, and he can see the outline of another body behind minghao. he squints to see who it is, but minghao quickly grabs his jaw to redirect his eyes.

and he kisses him again, again, until wonwoo feels lips on his neck. and minghao pulls away so another can push forward, licking a stripe across his skin to connect his clavicles, pulling at his shirt to expose his shoulder, to bite. the man laughs, and wonwoo can’t bring himself to remember who that voice belongs to.

minghao laughs along. he tugs on the stranger’s shirt roughly, pulling him up to kiss him. and there, right before him, wonwoo watches the way minghao’s lips look locked with junhui’s. 

“junhui...” wonwoo says in recognition.

minghao and junhui pull away from each other to look at wonwoo. junhui grins, and he climbs down wonwoo’s body as minghao leans back down to kiss him.

“ _ take it off _ ,” minghao commands, whispered and harsh, and wonwoo pulls his own shirt off in uncharacteristic hurry.


	12. the day

“for a place where nothing happens, there sure is so much to be done,” minghao sighs over piles of paperwork and ink on his fingers. he yawns, the sun already risen behind them, and he thinks of a few hours ago, when it was still dark and the day was still charming. when he could write without worrying about the time, and drink without feeling guilty about nearing deadlines.

but now the sun is up in the sky, shining brightly against the thin black of his robe and the silver of jeonghan’s tousled hair, a reminder of how little they’ve accomplished.

eyes nearly falling out of his head at the sight of how much work is left to do, jeonghan sighs and puts down his quill.

“go,” he tells minghao, leaning back in his chair and massaging his temples, “get some rest.”

minghao bows his head and doesn’t spend any effort trying to fake wanting to stay. he tightens his robe around the waist, though it does so little to hide the pale, naked body underneath, especially in the sun.

the garment was made for the night after all.

minghao exits without another word, the sound of footsteps leaving soon replaced with the sound of footsteps coming closer. jeonghan can barely feel the tips of his fingers, and so he can’t quite muster the effort to turn around and see who it is that had just come into his chambers.

in a moment, strong, familiar arms wrap around him from behind, and he doesn’t have to look to know who it is.

“mingyu,” he smiles, albeit tiredly, laughing as mingyu plants a kiss onto his cheek.

jeonghan stands, and mingyu doesn’t let go of him. he turns around to face him, and, mingyu’s arms around his waist, jeonghan’s arms around mingyu’s neck, jeonghan kisses him. long and hard and deep, sweet and sacred, all in one breath, until he really runs out of air.

“you need rest,” mingyu says firmly, as if determined to argue with jeonghan, or to simply lift his light body off of the floor and throw him into bed.

to mingyu’s surprise, jeonghan doesn’t argue. he only nods tiredly, and rests his head on mingyu’s strong chest for a moment, before walking to his bed, keeping their fingers entwined.

“sleep with me,” jeonghan says, pulling him down, “i don’t care if you’ve just woken up.”


End file.
